Some Seasons Last A Decade: Reflections on our first ten years of marriage

I know without looking there are dirty dishes piled in the sink right now. Clean clothes mingle with dirty, covering the girls’ bedroom floor where my four year old fashionista decided it was time for another costume change. The dark fake-wood Costco floors are constantly scattered with cracker crumbs and dried smears of someone’s careless hold on their Gogurt.

My life is not light’s first rays dappling fresh flowers and the luxury of finishing a cup of still hot coffee with my Bible open at my reclaimed wood farm table. It’s run and juggle and stumble-catch-up-hustle wearing yesterday’s makeup and my hair falling out of my bun while under couch shoe spelunking. It’s loving my pretty refurnished Annie Sloan and burlap besotted writing desk from the other side of the wall where I lay in a bed with mismatched sheets and clearance comforters only able to wake up enough at 4:45am to reach for my laptop with the cracked screen and tap out a few words that feel dumb and slow and dull.

And there’s this man.

This guy I have known for nearly half my life, since we were idealistic teenagers sitting on the warm leather seats of his classic Ford Falcon in the Burger King parking lot with nothing more pressing to do than eat fries and sip shakes and dream. When we would be out much too late and drive up to the church on the hill with the view of our whole world glittering beneath us; Ben and Jerry’s our only chaperones. I remember looking out on the sunset, breathing deeply the salty air, warm sand fast cooling beneath my feet and turning around smiling, for the picture he claimed he wanted, to find him knee deep in sand and commitment. I didn’t even say yes. I just tackled him and we giggled like little kids playing in the sand as he slipped on the sparkling ring that I would not be able to stop staring at the whole drive home.

I wasn’t sure I would be able to write this post. I’m sitting cast down to the floor outside the dingy bathroom door while an overly energetic game of tic tac toe between my boys is thrashing throwing covers off my bed. Who knew tic tac toe could be so physical?

I wasn’t sure I would be able to write this because the last ten years I have struggled and there have been times I would have slapped that carefree teenager on the beach if we were to cross paths. Times where me and that freckled guy with the cool car sat inches apart on church chairs separated by a Grand Canyon of hollow space. And in my heart in the darkest dark part, I blamed those stupid love-drunk teens for the death of my dreams and so many good to-be things.

Because I think I got some sort of young-married-parent PTSD between the up-all-nights and cleaning pee off every conceivable (and not so conceivable) surface and the living paycheck to paycheck and the meal planning and all. of. the. laundry. all. of. the. time.

And yet.

And yet, maybe some seasons are meant last a decade.

I have fought a battle with selfishness on all fronts into which I unwittingly enlisted on that hot July afternoon surrounded by family and friends and pale blue hydrangeas the moment I smilingly said “I do.” There was no slow transition of college and roommates to break me in gently to self discovery and sharing living space with another adult. There were no years of marriage learning how be ‘us’ well before we heard the shrill cry of our dimpled firstborn the month after our first anniversary.

I have put on the ill-fitting costumes of every shade of Aleah trying to find the one that works. The husband-pleaser. The gym-rat. The strict disciplinarian. The good church woman. The lazy quitter. And they were all too small because my life was not meant to be lived in costume.

I have been noticing the wind again as it races down the street and shakes the curling leaves of the old tree in the front yard, hung with that hammock I was at first so offended he would put up and now love. I remember being a kid wearing my favorite dark blue overalls with the sun, moon, and stars on the front pocket, freezing cold sitting outside on folding chairs in the last row watching one of the many outside screens broadcasting what was happening inside the arena. DC Talk opened and then Billy Graham walked up to the podium. I don’t know if he actually made the reference that night or if over the years I have just cut and pasted this quote onto that particular memory, but Mr. Graham of my memory talked about the wind. He spoke of God and said, “You can see the effects of the wind but you cannot see the wind.” I think of it every time I look out my front window and watch the seasons on the front tree.

Seasons change, but the wind is always pushing past buds blooming in spring, racing through summer’s greenery, dropping and rustling big golden brown leaves of fall, and whipping through winter’s bare branches.

I do not see God or His Spirit as He moves through my life, but I witness pieces of my life flying in all directions, a scattered mess, or gently falling into exactly the perfect place, each in their own season at their lovingly predetermined time.

George Carlin is attributed the quote, “Inside every cynical person is a disappointed idealist.” And I say, yes. Exactly. I have survived this ten year season, and really that’s a shame in so many ways. But I walk into the next season with all the costumes thrown off and left to burn in the slow glowing bonfire of my past along with my idealism and my selfish ambition and my victim mentality. I repent of my lazy cynicism.

I have sought survival in dry places where I closed my eyes to strange budding beauty; threw up my hands in defeat to the hard commitment to flourishing where I’m planted. I’ve too quickly glossed over the late nights with junk food and stupid shows, Dummy Rummy and laughing until we’re both crying that turns to kissing.

In an attempt to protect myself from being hurt I made each disappointment too heavy a counterbalance to the light joys of lazy mornings in bed, surprise candlelight, and slow dancing in the living room. I’ve allowed my disappointed desires to cast a long shadow muting all the bright colors haphazardly splashed across the canvas of our early years.

Even all this feels too idealistic to trust. I’m the kind of person that’s cautiously optimistic at best. Always waiting for what is about to go wrong. Maybe for me, living in optimism is instead of shutting down and curling my shoulders in inevitable disappointment, to get down–dirt under my fingernails–to tend soil for a foundation of flourishing. It’s messy work.

I’m ready to feel the wind on my face again and not think to complain about the mess of leaves sure to fall in its wake. I’m ready to take hold of this hardworking man’s hand who is still walking beside me, attempting to love every iteration of me in every season, and I him, and tonight we celebrate in the harvest of this decade.

Because in the midst of the hard slog of daily life and growing up we have sown good things. We have four wonderful kids, with four distinct personalities, and we have worked side by side modeling for them the messy beauty of being God’s beloved and loving Him with our whole lives. There are the date nights lingering late over pie, always chocolate for you and apple for me, where we still dream the big dreams and live out the small commitments. We have held each other and cried out in prayer, in confusion, in heartbreaking loss. We have invested time and resources to live out our love for the precious people the Lord has placed in our lives.

We are living out the beginning of our story. No, it hasn’t all been easy. But it has been worth it. And it has been good because we serve a wise God who knows what we need and all His plans work together for good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Happy 10th, Michael Joseph. I love you. I think the sexiest, most romantic thing any married person can say are the four little words, “I won’t give up.” Here’s to learning how to do ‘us’ well through loving and working together in the next season, wherever the wind carries us.